


Her What If List

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Series: Memori Week [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Grounder!Murphy, Meet-Cute, actually idk if we can call it a meet cute because it's an appropriate amount of antagonism, and emori is her usual amazing self
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 07:49:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14786418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: Memori Appreciation Week: Day One: Canon DivergenceEmori and Otan's latest robbery goes awry when the mark ends up being very much awake, but all's well that end's well, and an unexpected connection is made in the middle of the desert.And she wonders if his eyes weren’t just sad, that they were just asleep. Because maybe it’s the fire, or the fading adrenaline, but now Emori can swear his eyes are sparkling.Which is a stupid thing to think.She’s in the middle of the dead zone, with a gun that isn’t a gun, and a man who could be conning her just like she’s trying to con him.Still.





	Her What If List

“Is anyone out here with you, or are you dying alone tonight?”

Emori freezes in the shadows behind the rocks, not recognizing the low voice from beside the fire that calmly issued the threat, but absolutely recognizing the ragged gasp as her brother’s.

Which means that the heist is not only a bust, it’s Otan’s life on the line. 

She doesn’t hesitate for a moment, fumbling around in her belt and already pushing away from the shadows, pushing the panic out of her voice and fixing her face into a disinterested expression. 

“I’d let him go, if I were you,” she calls, stepping into the ring of light the fire casts, a pistol heavy in her hand. The gun doesn’t work, hasn’t worked since she found it, half-buried, outside of Polis, but the man with a knife at her brother’s neck has no way of knowing that. He turns, her brother too, Otan’s eyes wide at the cool pressure of a blade at his throat. 

“Let. Him. Go,” Emori repeats, her voice steady and an eyebrow raised in a casual challenge, even as her heart feels like it’ll burst from her chest. And if she’s going to bluff, she’s going to bluff; she cocks the empty chamber. 

The knife lifts. 

Not far, not enough for her to breathe easily, but it’s no longer pressed into her brother’s neck, and Emori focuses on the man holding it. She doesn’t recognize him, and his eyes are glowing in the firelight.

He makes a sound like a laugh. “So does Sangedakru not believe in curses and guns?”

“I am  _ not  _ Sangedakru,” Emori says, her voice sharper than she means for it to be, and she focuses on the tattoo like a ladder on the forearm holding the knife to reorient herself, “Since when does a Boudalan speak English?”

Again, the wry laugh. “I’m no more Boudalan than you are Sangeda,” he says on a shrug. He considers her for a moment, then pulls the knife back, spinning it around between his fingers once it’s a safe distance away. “And since we already have that in common, I’m going to venture a guess that we’d like to get through the night without each other’s blood on our hands, yeah?”

Emori’s eyes narrow. 

It can’t be that easy, can it? This stranger just giving in, letting her brother go, trusting her? But he tucks the knife into his belt with casual ease, and the hand that was clamped on Otan’s shoulder loosens, and he even goes so far as to pat Otan’s back in a good-natured way.  

Still not sure she believes it, but not wanting to push fate, Emori jerks her head to her left, and Otan runs over to her side; she risks taking her eyes off the not-Boudalan to run an appraising eye over her brother. 

“Are you alright?” she asks in a low voice, relieved by his quick nod. “Okay. Go back to the camp; I’ll take care of this.”

His eyes dart to the fire uncertainly, and he shifts on his feet. “Are you sure you—”

“Go,” she cuts him off, waiting for him to follow her instructions before she turns her eyes back to the man by the fire. 

He’s looking at her already. 

And it shouldn’t surprise Emori; all her life people have stared at her. With confusion, with pity, with fear, but never like this man is. Like he’s intrigued. 

She should follow her brother. 

Get away from the camp where Otan let his guard down and almost lost his life for it, back to their set up. But the stranger’s eyes are locked on her, and Emori’s head tilts as she lets him stare at her, because it’s new and it’s not unwelcome.  

He has sad eyes, she realizes. Some would call them blue, like an ocean or a sky before a storm, but all she sees in them is a veneer. She knows a thing or three about that. 

“You’re not going to kill me, right?” he asks, breaking the silence, and Emori is appalled when a smile flickers over her face at his sudden question, before she can school her expression into something inscrutable. 

“Haven’t decided yet,” she says, but she lowers the gun. Of course she isn’t going to kill him, but if she plays her cards right, she can get out of this with the tech she and Otan came to steal in the first place. 

“Trying to figure out if I’m going to just give you the cannisters?” he asks, in the same lazy voice.

Well, there goes that. 

Emori purses her lips. “Are you?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” he says, lifting his chin as he echoes her words back to her.

And she wonders if his eyes weren’t just sad, that they were just asleep. Because maybe it’s the fire, or the fading adrenaline, but now Emori can swear his eyes are sparkling. 

Which is a stupid thing to think. 

She’s in the middle of the dead zone, with a gun that isn’t a gun, and a man who could be conning her just like she’s trying to con him.

Still. 

It’s been so long since she’s had a conversation with someone that wasn’t (1) her brother or (2) terrified of her, so Emori humors herself a bit.  

“What’s your name?” she asks. 

The man looks smug, like he was waiting for her to ask, and Emori wonders if he knows that his casual facade is pretty clearly a facade. It’s her job to read people, to figure out how and why they are, and he’s playing the unaffected card too heavily to be that uninvested. He turns to the fire, sitting deliberately, the invitation clear, even as he turns to face the flames. 

“They call me Murphy,” he says, and that just about confirms everything she’s thinking. Because that’s not his actual name, it’s the name he wants people to know. 

Emori raises her eyebrows. “And they call me frikdreina,” she shrugs, “That’s not what I asked.”

At her words, something flickers across his face. His jaw ticks a bit, then he blinks slowly, looking away from the fire, deliberately turning to her. He looks her over carefully, his eyes noticing the wrapping around her left hand, and Emori is surprised. Usually the mention of her deformity makes people look away, avert their eyes in case it’s somehow catching. But not Murphy. He looks at her, all the more intent, like he’s curious and not wary, like he’d like to ask, but wouldn’t.

His eyes travel back up to her face and Emori wonders why it matters to her what she’s reading on his face. 

After another moment, Murphy turns back to the fire with a slight shake of his head. “They shouldn’t,” he says, his voice low. 

Emori blinks. 

At face value, it’s a general enough statement, and one she heartily agrees with: people shouldn’t stick other people in categories. But his eyes, when he says it, it’s like he means it just for her. Like the clans will say whatever they want, and that can’t be changed, but they shouldn’t say it about her. 

Emori scoffs, callous to cover up her curiosity. “There are lots of things people shouldn’t do.”

“Like hold a stranger at gunpoint?” Murphy asks, his eyes darting to the side to check her reaction and Emori feels a smile teasing at her mouth.

Oh, what the hell. 

She crosses over to the fire, settling on the log next to him. She’s far enough away that she can grab her knife and do some damage if she should have to...but something tells her she won’t have to.

“Now that,” she says to the fire, “was strategically sound.”

Murphy snorts. “Strategically sound would’ve been staying hidden.”

“Staying hidden would’ve meant a dead brother.”

“Brother, huh.”

Murphy’s voice has gone contemplative, and Emori sneaks a glance at him, not quite sure what to read into that. 

“Brother,” she affirms. “So, you know, thanks for not slicing his neck open.”

“Thanks for letting me keep my head on my shoulders,” Murphy shrugs, the motion disguised by the flicker of firelight. 

Emori doesn’t turn back to the flame, studies the man next to her. He’s far from Adonis, but she can’t see anything that would mark him frikdreina. But he was pretty emphatic about not being a part of Rock Line, which means that his isolation is self imposed. 

Which begs the question of why she’s still there.  

He’s probably wondering the same thing.

But no, because he looks perfectly at ease. Like he’s content with her company, with the fire, with the turn the night has taken. 

She doesn’t want to ruin it. 

Ironic, because there’s not really anything to ruin, but in Emori’s life, she always has her  _ what if _ s. She’s not a day dreamer, nothing but practical and a realist, but on the nights she can’t sleep, she runs through her what ifs. 

What if the clans accepted her hand?

What if her parents had?

What if Otan hadn’t had to choose between becoming a nomad and never seeing his sister again?  

What if she had learned to fight as someone’s second, and not to put food in her brother’s mouth?

What if she could notice the color of someone’s eyes instead of the secrets they held?

And now, Emori thinks, now she can add another what if to her list: what if she was the type of girl who can just sit by a fire, with someone who’s wearing a smile that she put there? 

Some things are better left to the imagination.

She lets out a quick breath, pushing herself to her feet, telling herself that she’s misreading the expression on Murphy’s face. Because it looks an awful lot like disappointment, and now it’s too late, because that expression is on her  _ what if _ s list now too.   

“Don’t worry,” she says softly, “the burglary mood has passed.”

Murphy stands too, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and Emori wishes he hadn’t. He’s taller than her, and he’s closer than across the camp, and she can see the firelight in his eyes. 

“Uh,” he says eloquently, stepping back slightly, noticing the closeness. “I mean, I come through here once or twice a month. So, if the mood ever strikes again, you know where to find me.”

Emori tips her head back to look up at him. “Otan and I have a pretty tight handle on these dunes,” she says suspiciously, “we haven’t held you up before, which means you don’t pass through here on a monthly basis.”

“I will now.”

He says it so quickly, almost urgently, that Emori isn’t sure what to say back. So she ducks her head, but not before he sees her smile. 

“Well then,” she says, backing away from the fire, letting herself look at him again when she’s farther away, “I guess I’ll see you around, Mu—”

“John,” he interrupts, like it’s vitally important that she know. “It’s John.”

“John,” she repeats, not really meaning to, but thinking that it suits him. She likes the sound of it, and his face when she says it looks like maybe he likes the sound of her saying it too. 

“Yeah,” he says, and there’s a different timbre in his voice, something like pride. Emori nods, backing away further. 

“Okay. I’ll see you around, then.”

And she turns, stockpiling what ifs, cradling them, making her step quick before anything shatters. 

“Wait!”

Emori knows she’s out of the range of the light of the fire and that John can’t see her, but she still pauses. When she doesn’t retrace her steps, she hears an exaggerated sigh and a mumbled curse, before John raises his voice to yell, “You didn’t tell me your name!”

And she should keep going. Back to Otan, away from the fire and John Murphy, back into the covering darkness of night. 

But she licks her lips, and calls back in his direction.

“It’s Emori.”

“Emori,” he repeats, his voice softened by distance, and maybe something more, and Emori quickens her step again, heading back to the camp, for the first time in a while, not bothering to constrain her expression. There’s no one around to see, no one to perform for, to con, and she gets the feeling that John knows anyways; in the darkness, she can smile. 


End file.
